you can dance in a hurricane (but only if you're standing in the eye)
by McMightDo
Summary: distance, n., definition: 1. an amount of space between two things or people 2. a far off point or place
1. Georgia

y'all were so nice about the last thing i wrote so here you go. title from 'the eye' by brandi carlile.

* * *

It's funny how things work out. Or don't work out.

For instance, Chloe would have never in a million years imagined the current life she leads as hers. She's in an old farmhouse, _her_ old farmhouse, looking out as the sun rises in a frame of old live oaks.

Granted it's super tiny because music teachers aren't exactly raking it in these days, but it's her spot all the same. It's cute.

She'd definitely never thought she'd stay in Georgia. But she'd never really had any other place in mind. So it makes sense in a way, she thinks, stirring her polka-dotted mug of coffee as she stares, that the view is of trees and grass and green instead of waves and sand.

She'd practically grown up on the beach in Miami. When everyone calls you Ariel as a little kid and you respond to it? That's when you know. Freshman year at Barden she'd invited some of the Bella's back with her that first spring break, only Aubrey had taken her up on it. The look on the blonde's face full of wonder and the calm relief that only the sea gives once they'd trudged over the first dune was one of those moments Chloe can never forget.

(When Aubrey came back in the fall that year, she was more restrained and increasingly spouted quotes and business sayings from her father. It makes the memory of those three seconds on a random beach in Florida just that much more special to Chloe.)

She puts the milk away and a breeze catches on the fridge door as it shuts, dislodging a rumpled piece of paper. Chloe smiles, tucking a loose curl from her messy bun behind her ear, and slips the drawing of a smiley face ("WE LUV U MS B" is scrawled across it along with what she guesses is supposed to be a musical note) back under a magnet from Los Angeles. There are so many clippings from her kids that she's started to double up.

And she doesn't get as many magnets any more.

But Chloe tilts her head at the covered door and layers of hearts and smiley faces and generally adorable things those kids do and she absolutely cannot help the inescapably warm smile that stretches across her face as if the little humans are smiling back, gap teeth and all.

So maybe she couldn't totally make a living on helping inner city kids through music like she'd expected, but she looks forward to the few hours a week she can volunteer to do so. One of her favorite things about both teaching music and music therapy volunteering is the way all the kids take to it, enjoy it, no matter their background. Occasionally it scares her how much of a role she has in shaping their futures. Sometimes it breaks her heart to know what some of them have gone through. Mostly she's just happy to be something good.

Because kids come to school or sessions carefree and eager and laughing and Chloe can't help but be the same. Another group leader, Matt, had chuckled at her when she'd said that aloud.

"It helps that you're carefree, eager, and laughing to start out with too," he'd said with a wink.

"But I'm not six years old," she'd shot back, arms akimbo.

"You sure about that?" Chloe had gasped playfully and successfully turned the kids against him for the session.

(He'd asked her out the second week of sessioning together but after a few dates they'd agreed they were better as friends. (It was Chloe's suggestion. Matt had been disappointed but accepted it. (He's a total sweetheart but something else tugged at her.)) It's different to make friends as 'adults' but they have a group they've mismatched and mixed between the two of them so it worked out fine.)

She's not quite six but even now she doesn't feel completely 27 years old. She's still the bubbly, outgoing Chloe everyone from Barden probably remembers, but she can feel a muted change to her. She doesn't know what it is or when it happened. She's in no way old but most of it probably came with age, this strange subtle calm in her life. She has elements of intensity and impulsiveness, sure, but part of her has always been drawn to soft moments.

Beyond all that, there's something else, too, just below the surface.

As the thought ripples through her, Chloe shifts her shoulder under her oversized knit sweater and rubs her thumb along the rim of her mug, tapping the sides of the thick ceramic lightly. She gnaws her bottom lip.

Because it's weird. The thing. Every now and then she has a weird flash. Sometimes it's a memory. Sometimes it's something else. (She's hesitant to call it a daydream (or even worse—a fantasy).) But the aftermath is always a dull ache.

The flash is something super ridiculous like a slap-happy bark of laughter heard at 4 am after staying up all night before finals. Almost calling out to the other room. A bare arm curling around her waist in damp air under an umbrella in Copenhagen. Or a slouched figure in the passenger seat of her new car that some nights she swears she sees out of the corner of her eye. She's haunted by this ghost made up of missing pieces.

So after the ache she mostly gets mad because she can easily just call or text despite whatever time difference (even if what she really wants is FaceTime or Skype). There might just be a slight delay in response, even if the amount of communication has just dropped off a bit. And she's not used to restraining herself anyway. It's so hard to wait. So she gets frustrated enough to nearly stomp her foot or pout like the six year old she's totally not because she's caught between a rock and a hard place because she _wants_ and she wants to talk.

But the things she wants to say are silly things, little things, like how great the laundry booster she got smells. Adult things like that she's thinking of picking up 'A Naan-Full' for dinner. Or how soft her new sheets are. And yeah that's normal talk, totally within the realm of exchanges between friends, but she'd keep going and going and the root of where it's coming from is so _domestic_ that it causes her to stop.

It causes her to stop. And it causes her to do something stupid like what she's doing right now, running her fingers over a corny plastic magnet meant to look like a retro postcard that says "Greetings from Los Angeles!". A magnet that was sent to her four years ago from a girl who at the time had just shot her a text as she stepped off a plane in LAX en route to a record company 'discussion'.

Over time, so much freaking time, the 'discussion' evolved into a 'deal' which evolved into an 'EP' which evolved into an 'record' which evolved into a 'tour'. And due to this evolution there are over two dozen magnets scattered across the fridge, pieces of her life held together by glimpses of someone else's. The pictures sent to her phone are saved somewhere in her harddrive but these she sees every day. The names of cities grow farther from what she knows and more exotic—Vegas, London, Milan, Berlin, Tokyo. And then less frequent. But each time she can almost imagine herself there.

She can imagine herself there, herself with Beca. Because of course its Beca. She can imagine herself a part of Beca's new life. Chloe doesn't want to be a roadie or ride Beca's coattails. Chloe's never wanted fame and it's not about escape. She has her life and loves her job. It's the person involved and the level of missing her.

She wants feeling. She chases happiness. She does things she likes because she likes them, even if it hurts—see 'singing with nodes in college'. And she can indulge now and then, and when she is feeling particularly bold, she can picture a one life mixed between the two of theirs.

(And this jumps about four stages because they never actually even _talked_ about _it_. Them. There was something unspoken that their connection was different from the start. But she's starting to think she's crazy and the only one who felt it—but that's impossible though, right? It was real. Right?)

In the beginning she'd Googled the hell out of Beca because she was so proud and it was so surreal and she'd sent screenshots of raving YouTube comments and Soundcloud freakouts to her with an emoji of the monkey covering his mouth mostly because the sarcastic responses were super hilarious. The evolution wasn't sudden and it took years of Beca working damn hard and stringing herself too thin sometimes (in Chloe's opinion).

Even Chloe got fed up once or twice or 47 times because why the hell was it taking so long for people to connect the music to Beca.

The 36 hour days and constant travel and edits upon edits of words and beats paid off in the end. Because then the screenshots of YouTube comments became of music reviews and pics of posters around Atlanta and gig shots then album covers until the little game was lost when paparazzi became everyday life and Grammy red carpets were the norm.

She used to know at least the names of the people in the pictures with her. But Beca's world got bigger and it became almost a new set of faces every week. Beca tried to keep up by sending pics or checking in but it dropped off and it's totally understandable and Chloe won't be demanding.

Chloe still googles from time to time, to see clubs and gigs, and she still imagines what it would be like to be there in a crowd listening to the final cut of a song she'd been sent in a rough mp3 during a Skype session a year prior (Beca always wanted to watch her reaction). She wonder what it would be like to see Beca in action. It would probably blow her mind.

It's for the best though, that she's not there, she thinks. Wherever 'there' may be, it's for the best that she's here. She will take what she can get being the friend, the support system, a million miles away with encouraging responses to a spattering of texts. She won't put pressure on it. Beyond hearing her friend's thoughts on things, Chloe's seen what Beca goes through and how she has reacted to the harsh side of fame. She knows that's partly to blame for what has happened between the two of them. Because when she googles to see the posed pictures other pictures pop up too. The kind with faces being shielded from blinding flashes on the way to dinner, or sunglasses in an SUV with tinted windows that still aren't dark enough.

Chloe probably wouldn't be able to deal with that, she thinks, sipping at her coffee. She'd probably lose herself in all the pictures. She'd end up being someone she wouldn't know. She thinks. On hard days she says it aloud. _This is for the best_.

(She can almost convince herself.)

The sun is almost over the fence line now and the light has shifted from pink to orange and yellow and it's a new day. The morning is drenched in golden promise and Chloe smiles.

So it's for the best that things are the way they are. She will sit and wait for what she gets from Beca and she will be whatever her friend needs her to be. She's fine. She's content.

She can think of a hand in hers in Milan or a smudge on the shoulder of her favorite white blouse from snuggling with heavily eyelinered eyes in Sydney and maybe even the whip of dark curls in her face during fireworks in Bangkok.

And then she's back in her kitchen in Georgia. She's miles from the city. And it is a beautiful August day and it is Saturday and she has grading to catch up on while she streams the radio station she uses for mornings like these. She'll meet Aubrey on her way to the city for brunch then head to the center for a few hours with the kids and she'll bust out glow sticks and hula hoops and they will be smiling and laughing and then there's 'Saturday Supper' with her friends at Matt's and everything is fine.

And she's almost glad Beca never fell in love with her.

(She'll convince herself tomorrow.)


	2. New York

It's autumn in the Big Apple and the state of the city is almost as close to what Beca would describe as perfect.

When they'd been in New York freshman year of college, she'd mumbled something about how she'd loved it. Jesse was there—so she must have still been caught up in the moment of adrenaline that had caused her to do multiple stupid things—and he'd put his hand to his chest and cooed at her mockingly "Aw a little cold closed off city for a cold closed off girl" and Beca had punched him and flipped him off.

But that was nothing like NYC in the fall. It's crisp and cool and the trees are a symphony of red, gold and orange. And the sun is nearly down and the street is a sea of fire and God she's drowning in it in the best way.

The wind is cutting and her headphones are functioning as earmuffs under her beanie and even with a scarf and jacket, the cold seeps into her face beneath sunglasses (she's not being an ass assuming she's super famous and trying to hide, there's just a lot of glass here and shit reflects off everything) and honestly it's pretty awesome. It wouldn't be like this for another month or so where she grew up.

She doesn't really have a 'place' right now. They stay in hotels or rent furnished studio apartments if she's in a location for a while recording or producing or whatever. 'They' changes with whatever is going on but she's not above staying with the people that make her career work for her. She's nothing special, just a girl here to jam.

Her group has been scheduled to be here long enough that she has a small studio loft and a beaten path to a 24 hour taco place. It's almost heaven.

She knows that in a room back home, the one that used to be her mom's craft room, there's a growing collection of framed records on the walls and some signed pictures and stuff like that. Her dad has some stuff too like the autographed ball she threw out at the Braves game. But she doesn't keep any of it because she doesn't have a home to put it in. And it's not that important to her anyway.

She gets to the corner and waits for the pedestrian walk sign to light up. She doesn't even worry about creeping lenses or anything like that because it's New York City and for a few minutes in a city of millions she's just her. She doesn't stick out in a crowd other than maybe being a little short. Which is subjective because really, it's not like she's a damn hobbit.

She hasn't pulled a Calvin Harris and completely remodeled her look. Much to some people's dismay. It's still weird to her that people shout her name and she hasn't really gotten any better at dealing with it despite multiple stints in media training. ("You can't say 'sup', to people, Beca." "Dude why not?" "…'dude' is not encouraged either.") But that's sort of her brand, the nonchalance and chillness.

When her life is as insane as it is now there are a few things that provide her solace. People think right off that it's the music. And they're kinda right. But music is the language she uses to tell the story. And yea she's never wanted to be a corny sap but she guesses she kinda is.

Because every so often, beyond tempo and notes, there's a line in her a song of hers—and words are _not_ her specialty but sometimes she adds a few—but it's her tell and it's usually about a color. There's one that people really like in a song of hers called Sky. She knows people like it because the song sold a ridiculous amount of copies and the record company gave her one of those framed records things for it.

But she knows people _feel_ it because sometimes at signings people bring fan art and seeing the words she strung together about "worlds of baby blue" still makes her blush a little. And then Scarlet Fever caused her to nearly be massacred by Swifties when she wrote about being consumed by red.

The songs shift in her headphones and at the opening notes her eyes flick to the time illuminating the screen of her phone. She does some quick mental math on time changes until she remember's she's not _that_ far and imagines a shock of red hair lying against a pillow. She smiles.

She wants to send a text because she knows Chloe is relaxing after a long day. But she can't just send a smiley face because she's not Chloe and she doesn't really know what to say other than "how was your day".

But that's weird. It's not but it is. It's just super freaking weird she acts like they are married.

(It's kind of like a weird unspoken agreement that they don't talk about dating or whatever. Not like she's in the game. But she kinda assumes Chloe is even though she doesn't want to and the name "Matt" has slipped out once or twice which is enough for Beca to assume…things.)

This is when she honestly swears she is emotionally stunted. Because she should be able to just say hi to her best friend without being like "holy shit i love you". She's done it for years. She's a little different and she's a lot vulnerable in ways she wasn't expecting to ever be.

She runs thin some days, she seriously does, and she almost breaks and texts "goddammit just be here" but she is afraid. She's afraid she'd wake up in a few hours to a frantic knock at her door and she can't do that to Chloe who is a _teacher_ now with her own life and a house she's seen in pictures she sends. And she's afraid she wouldn't wake up to her at all when she really, _really_ breaks and actually needs her. So she breathes and ignores it. Just like how she can't give in to the thought of finishing a set, dropping her headphones, walking out the door and ending up on a porch in Georgia at 10 pm. (She's not a dramatic asshole though so there's no rain involved in this scenario.)

Because it would be so friggin nice. It'd be perfect even. It'd be perfect to just hang out at that house in the middle of nowhere (it's not really, it's in a neighborhood) just together with no one bothering them. And the little thing has a front porch and she wants to hang one of those wooden porch swings like the kind in her mom's Southern Living magazines up for Chloe so they can drift lazily back and forth and talk or not even talk at all. They can listen to music that whispers everything she wants to say.

So within that mental freak out she has on occasion, she also, for whatever messed up reason, has a tendency to suffer from white knight syndrome when it comes to Chloe. And with this, like back at Barden during senior year, there's some level of protection involved. Why? Well sometimes she's on damage control because Chloe mad is terrifying and she's genuinely afraid of her. But it also sucks so much to see her sad it's like a devastated puppy, like kicking a goddamn puppy, and she actually physically hurts when Chloe does.

And one day they'd arrived in Pittsburgh for a radio guest DJ spot and one of the guys made a joke after Beca hung up on a phone call with Chloe, and they're all kind of a family so it's ok, but there was a girl in the doorway from the radio station. And then in the pre-spot interview the subject was broached. It was brief, but it was enough for Beca. Chloe is in her tightest circle of secrets.

She has so many people around her now in an ever changing circus she doesn't even know who she can trust. Again, not saying she'd 'confess' anything to anyone because Beca is not about that with anything, but you never know what people might hear and say. Even though she doesn't really give a shit what people say about her, people still have the need to consume her life. And she can see that house and that swing and those trees and that life swallowed up in flashes and screaming questions until she wakes up from the nightmare panting and blinking into the night.

Beca reaches the door of her building, nods to the door attendant, Samson, and takes the elevator to her floor. After sliding her keycard in the slot and nudging her door open she barges in, shifting her messenger bag from her shoulder to the floor.

She might not have her mounted records and autographed memorabilia with her but what she does have is a ratted piece of fabric that's tied to the handle of her bag. It could use a wash and is starting to show it's age but for some reason Beca's never been able to part with her Bella Bandanna.

It reminds her of things and moments and a group of totally awesome nerds.

She feels the pull again and fishes her phone from her pocket as she pulls off all her cold weather gear. She walks over to one of the oversized chairs near the floor to ceiling windows and plops down lacking any sense of grace her mother ever hoped she'd magically obtain.

She does this a lot, sits and struggle with words, in many ways. But tonight, for whatever reason, she thinks things may change. Years from now she won't be able to pinpoint why or what happened on a completely inconspicuous day after a totally uninteresting walk to a bland apartment. She's tired but she's not on the verge of one of her 'wearing thin moments'. This is something different.

This doesn't feel like giving up. This feels like moving forward.

She looks out over the city and she's done with sunsets.

 _Hey :)_ she texts. There are three minutes of eternity and a calm stare until a ping from her phone breaks her vigil.

 _There you are :)_ is the reply.

Beca smiles.


End file.
